You know what I love about America, you said, while we walked the Spanish cobblestone in Seville.
What? I grinned, my head bobbing on your shoulder.
How loud you all are, you mused. Not even just in your speech – but in your clothes, too.
You pointed to a group of tourists, gawking lazily near the Cathedral. Look at you bloody Americans over there.
What is a ‘Packer’ anyway? You asked. What is a Green Bay? Some sort of monsoon? A swamp.
A bay, that’s green?
I don’t know about ‘packer’, I admitted.
Why can’t Americans just follow our lead? You said. Manchester United – now that’s a team name. Straightforward. Self-explanatory.
I smiled; squeezed your waist.
Come visit me some day, I whispered. You can ask any question you want.
You kicked up a rock with the front of your sneaker.
Won’t I be hanged, mate? Death by guillotine. Isn’t that what they do to the gays in Texas?
I picked my head up from your shoulder.
Well, we wouldn’t go to Texas, would we?
New York, I said.
New York, you repeated.
We’ll find our way there – some day.